Zoo Animal
by editorbit
Summary: This isn't a cell in Arkham. He's been in there enough times to know what those look like. This is a cell Jeremiah's made for him.


The room - cell - he wakes up in is small. It's empty, excluding himself, and the door if that counts. The walls are grey and plain as well as the cold, very hard floor. He's checked every corner, every centimetre of his cell. Everything is sturdy and well made as well as perfectly angled. Despite the lack of, well everything, he immediately knows where he is.

This isn't a cell in Arkham. He's been in there enough times to know what those look like. This is a cell Jeremiah's made for him, perhaps not from the start whenever this maze - because it is a maze - was built but it certainly is now.

There's a camera further up in one of the walls. Jerome is no engineer, nor an architect, or anything of the sort, but he figures that camera hasn't always been there. What the room was originally going to be is beyond him though. There's a light blinking somewhere on the camera, a little red one. It has blinked ever since Jerome woke up and he's not really sure if that means Jeremiah's watching or if it just means it's on, and therefore always blinks, but he likes to think it's the former.

It's difficult to reach, but he grips the edges of the square hole the camera's set up in and keeps himself propped up, face right in the camera. Jeremiah can see him wherever he stands in the cell, but he knows, just knows, getting this close will get his brother on the edge of his seat, pick up his heart rate and make him uneasy. He might not be able to see him, but he still thrives of that feeling he knows must run through Jeremiah as he's been watching at least once he's done this.

He doesn't need to see him.

Jeremiah's sitting by his desk with all his screens projecting whatever all his other cameras are filming, though he's not watching those. He's watching the one connected to this very camera, projecting the image of him - Jerome. He's holding a cup of coffee, or maybe he's started drinking. Jerome started early. It's ironic, really. He's spent all his life complaining about his drunk mother and yet, there he was, drinking for the first time at the age of... nine? Ten? On the other hand, Jerome had never drank as much as her. He'd been dead of alcohol poisoning if that was the case.

Jeremiah seems like a scotch kind of guy, or maybe whiskey. Oh, yeah, definitely whiskey. Propped up on one of his desks he probably has one of those fancy glass bottles, as well as glasses, like an old, rich businessman. Jerome can envision the serious, I'm-so-rich-I-only-drink-from-fancy-whiskey-bottles face of his brother as he picks up his barely filled glass and downs it in one go - slowly.

Then his brother goes to work by his workbench, because he definitely has a workbench, and works on those drawings of his. That's what he does now, draws things for a living. Unlike back when they were younger, he draws on fancy paper now, with fancy fountain pens, fancy rulers and when he makes mistakes - if he makes them - he'll erase them with his fancy erasers. Jerome can remember all the single pages of paper, slightly curled and sometimes stained with dirt from when he'd sit outside and draw, or when Jerome had taken them from him and stepped on them. All Jeremiah had to draw with then was a too short, chewed-on pencil he'd found somewhere in the trailer.

His brother's clad in expensive, tailored clothes, nicely fitted and not a millimetre too big or small. They're a colour like beige, or brown, or blue, or just a mix of them all. His new, great parents must have gotten them for him. That's what rich parents do, right? Buy their little offsprings, real or not, tailored suits and dresses of the most exquisite fabrics? Jerome wouldn't know, having only worn worn-out shirts, sweaters and slightly too big pants. Jeremiah had to at some point, but times do change, don't they?

Jerome can see his brother without really seeing him, like it's him that he sees in the camera, rather than his own reflection. Jeremiah knows that, feels his eyes on him, which makes it all the better. He doesn't even need to be in the same room as Jeremiah, and he can still make the younger feel anxious.

Sometimes he speaks, knowing it'll taunt him even more. He can just imagine the evasive eyes, the fiddling hands gripping his cup - or glass - and his new, pricy glasses sliding down his nose. It brings a smile to Jerome's face.

He speaks with a tone of care and affection, albeit Jeremiah knowing it's all fake, and with over-exaggerated kind gestures, kisses, smiles and hand movements. He enjoys the reactions he knows he's getting.

Jeremiah never speaks, not through the speaker Jerome knows is there somewhere with the camera at least, and Jerome makes it a goal to get him to do so. If he tries hard enough, says just the right words to send his brother off the edge, he'll achieve his goal. And Jerome can imagine his voice already. Calm and collected, words well planned and slow-spoken as to not make any mistakes. Though, Jerome doesn't need to hear him stutter to know he's nervous. He doesn't need to hear him at all actually to know.

Jeremiah's got him all locked up in his special little prison cell, yet he's scared. The feeling that thought gives Jerome, fuels him like petrol would a car. It brings yet another smile to his scarred face.

Jeremiah, his sweet, shy, simpatico little snake of a brother, should be scared. He would be even more so if he knew what was coming.

There's still not very much to do in his cell and he has to resort to his imagination, like when they were kids and had to occupy themselves when their - so called - mother kicked them out of the trailer so she "could have it for herself", as she said. Have it for herself. Jerome snorts, letting his coat drop on the floor. They were six, not stupid. The only thing she had to herself, was the alcohol.

He turns to face the camera once he's kicked off his shoes, standing on his coat like he's about to have a show. He does have an audience, an audience of one whole person, so perhaps this is a show. Jeremiah's watching, he's sure of it. Jerome can feel it. An odd prickly feeling spreads across his skin and a wave of an unfamiliar emotion runs through his chest. It's the feeling of being watched. He concludes that it's a nice feeling.

Several push-ups, including one handed ones, sit-ups and any other type of workout he can do in here, the feeling still hasn't faded. Jeremiah must have a lot of time on his hands today. Does he not have friends from those fancy schools he went to? Jerome eyes the camera, as if that'll somehow answer his question. Probably not, he concludes. He figures even those people aren't the type to build underground mazes, let alone live in one.

Well, except that proxy. On the other hand, who won't live in a maze underground for enough money?

Standing up, Jerome stretches. Discarding his coat and shoes, he approaches the camera with slow, casual steps, pulling himself up to get up close and personal with the camera. "Oh Jeremiah~." He can practically see Jeremiah's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows thickly, an attempt to calm his nerves, and see his tight grip on his cup.

Several moments pass. No response - at least not any verbal ones - though Jerome's not very defeated because of this.

"Come on." He pulls at the words, dragging them out and putting on his best I-know-you-want-to-talk-to-me tone. Once again, no response. Jerome wonders if he's considering it, pressing that button that turns the microphone on. Perhaps his finger's hovering over it, or even placed on it. Jerome wonders what he'll say. Will he tell him to shut it? That question's almost too obvious to even consider answering. Of course not.

"Don't you wanna chat with your brother? It's been so long. How've you been?" His tone changes. From the knowing, I-know-you-want-to tone to the now kind, sugary, sincere - overly so - tone of a big brother. He's heard that tone before, not in his own personal life, but plenty of times on tv, and imitates it with ease. Though, no matter how real and honest he sounds, he knows Jeremiah can see right through it. Yet, perhaps, just maybe, he'll fall for it and give in. Give Jerome the satisfaction of having persuaded him into speaking.

He's not granted this feeling of satisfaction. The smile painted on his lips fades, not in disappointment, but in a change of tactics. His smile drops along with his body as he lets his shoeless feet hit the floor. Stepping away he pulls out his very familiar innocent, worried, scared, I-just-lost-my-mother persona. He wears it like a mask, completed with a frown and let down eyes. Creating the persona - the mask - didn't need him looking very far for inspiration, nothing further than his own brother in fact. Vivid images of a face then much more like his own flashes before his eyes. Eyes filled with big, crocodile tears, trembling voice and small, fidgety hands gripping a then too big sweater.

There's a sigh, complimented by dropped shoulders, a hand over his heart and evasive eyes. "You hurt me, really."

The emotional act doesn't last long. "But that's fine." Eyes find the camera once again. The beginning of a smile starts showing itself, a slight twitch in the corners of his lips, subtle enough to go unnoticed by Jeremiah through the screen. "We have all the time in the world to catch up." Perhaps a bit of a stretch. All the time in the world is a long time, especially in a place like this.

If he would be staying here that is. Jeremiah has built him a lovely little cell, and if he cared he'd be proud, but cells just aren't Jerome's thing. He prefers his freedom, once in a while at least. Though, maybe a cell would be more of Jeremiah's style. Don't knock it 'till you've tried it, as they say. Hell, he can even have this one.

"Soon." As soon as the word leaves his lips, Jerome laughs. The feeling in his chest fades, much unlike his laughter.


End file.
